


Wendigo Blues

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Hunters & Hunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thought this would be a quick and easy hunt. Turns out, not so much. (or, what if John and Rodney hunted monsters?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wendigo Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to brinnanza for the astonishingly quick and thorough beta!

It’s not that John _misses_ Teyla–sure, hunting is easier with a partner, especially when it’s something like a wendigo, which this is looking more and more like–but he’s kind of wishing he’d taken her up on her offer to find him a replacement hunting buddy now that she and Ronon are a full time team. And sure, they invited him along to hunt with them, but there’s something a little weird about barging in on their honeymoon phase.

The crashing in the bushes gets louder, and his hand drops down to hover over the butt of his Beretta. Wendigoes are usually quieter than that, but it’d be pretty damn embarrassing for a seasoned hunter like John to get beat by a grizzly.

He moves back into the trees, off the barely-there deertrack he’d been following, and slides into a crouch with his back against a broad treetrunk.

And that’s when a large shape crashes through the foliage on the other side of the path. John draws the pistol and takes aim as it staggers closer and–

“Shit!” it says, and John blinks and lowers his weapon. 

It’s not a bear at all, it’s a guy with a giant backpack slung over his shoulders and a tablet computer clutched in his hands. He stops in the slight clearing of a wider bit of path and drops the backpack, plopping down on the ground and leaning against it. He takes a deep breath and digs in his pocket for–ah. A PowerBar.

John sits silently for a few moments as the man devours the snack. The guy is tall, around John’s height, and solid, though he doesn’t look like he’s quite used to the level of exertion required to get this far out in Yellowstone. He’s red-faced, hair sweat-damp, and he’s chewing like he’s been starved for weeks.

But one thing’s for certain–he’s not the wendigo.

“Hey,” says John, holstering his gun and standing. 

The guy jumps, dropping his PowerBar and skittering to one side, flailing at the holster at his belt.

“It’s okay!” John raises his hands. “Hey, man, not gonna hurt you.” He holds out a hand. “John Sheppard.”

The guy stares at him a moment from where he’s sprawled on the ground, then takes John’s hand gingerly and lets John pull him upright. “Um. Rodney. Dr. Rodney McKay. And you shouldn’t jump out at people like that. You could give someone a heart attack.”

John snorts. “I was already here. You’re the one who showed up.” He raises an eyebrow. “You gotta be careful out here. You make a lot of noise,with all that gear.” Picking up the tablet and glancing at the screen, he hands it to Rodney.

“Careful!” Rodney grabs it. “Important data on there, thank you.” He pokes at it, sliding through a few different pages, and John leans closer, watching. 

“Hey, that’s just west of here.” John points at a photo of a clearing he’d hiked through earlier in the day. “Maybe a mile or so.” He frowns and reaches down to flip back to the wider map. There’s a series of colored dots on a satellite image of the park, clustered near where they’re standing and fanning out. The furthest one is about ten miles away, but the majority are within two or so. And at least five of them–

“Quit it!” Rodney yanks it away again, hugging it to his chest. “That’s none of your business!”

“Oh, I dunno,” John says, voice slow and relaxed, trying not to get the guy more riled up than he already is, “looks like we might be after the same thing. You’re looking into the disappearances of Beckett and Cadman, right?”

Rodney blinks. “Um. Well. Yes. I–”

And that’s when Rodney’s eyes go wide and flick to behind John. Before John can turn there’s a sharp pain in the back of his skull and then darkness.

***

The next thing he’s aware of is pain, and darkness, which really isn’t all that different, but there’s also a voice whispering, “Sheppard, come on, wake up, oh my god,” in his ear. He tries to reply but all that comes out is a sort of dry croak. “Oh jesus, you’re awake,” says the voice, and oh yeah, McKay, the guy with the computer, that’s who that is.

John feels something cool at his lips and he opens his mouth instinctively for the dribble of water from the canteen, finally peeling his eyes open as a hand helps his ease up into a sitting position, propping him against the wall. “Rodney?” He manages, coughing. “What the hell happened?”

“What we were both looking for?” Rodney’s face is grim in the dim light. “Well, it found us first.”

“Crap,” says John, and rubs a hand over his eyes

“Pretty much.” Rodney is crouching beside him, canteen in hand. His face is dirt-streaked and there’s a bruising gash across his forehead, but otherwise he looks fine.

“What was it?” asks John. “Did you see it?”

Rodney opens his mouth then closes it. “Well, uh–” He clears his throat. “It wasn’t exactly, well, an animal. See, there are these things that are made, sometimes, when someone gets lost in the woods and gets hungry–”

“A wendigo. Yeah. That’s what I thought.” 

“That’s what you–oh my god, you’re a hunter!” Rodney’s jaw drops open.

“Um, yeah?” John reaches up to feel at the back of his head, wincing when his fingers encounter tacky blood and a painful lump. No concussion, as far as he can tell, but it’s not comfortable. “Why else would I be out in the middle of Yellowstone at night?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you’re a, a danger-seeker? Or a park ranger? Or whatever you people have instead of Mounties?”

John blinks. “Uh, what?”

“Mounties! I don’t know, National Guard?”

“Uh, no. Used to be military, if that helps,” John offers, feeling a little like maybe he does have that concussion after all.

Rodney stares at him another moment.

John decides to head him off before he can launch into another burst of chatter. “So. You’re a hunter too? Or not,” he amends, when Rodney glares. 

“I’m with the Men of Letters, if you _must_ know,” he says huffily, digging through his pack and pulling out a battered laptop, and John wonders just how much tech this guy is toting around the forest and–more importantly–how he’s even getting a signal out here. 

John’s heard of the Men of Letters. They’re supposed to be the researchers of the hunting world, the academics, and they’re not supposed to be out in the field, getting themselves and any hunters nearby killed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a bunker somewhere, protecting your mind?”

Rodney sighs. “Well. Yes. Generally. But Carson–” His jaw tightens. “Carson is my friend. And no one was looking for him. I had to do _something_.”

John gets that. “Okay then.” He pushes himself upright, fighting a wave of nausea. _Yeah,_ he thinks, _definitely reevaluating that whole concussion thing_. “So. Wendigo. You got a flaregun, McKay?”

“Oh, _please,_ ” says Rodney, perking up. “I’m a scientist. I’ve got something better.”

 _Better_ turns out to be pretty damn cool. It’s basically a blowtorch, directional and high-powered, with a compressed tank of fuel and built-in striker. Rodney claims the range is over twelve feet, his tone smug. But the smugness fades a little when John asks about accuracy. And also about forest fires.

“Well.” He says, not meeting John’s eyes. “It, uh, is very accurate. For some people.”

“Some people?” John presses. “Are you one of _some people_ , Rodney?”

“Well, you don’t have to be _that_ accurate!” Rodney snaps. “The thing’s ten feet tall!”

And John has to concede that he’s got a point there.

“This must be one of his food storage rooms,” John says, tugging at the bars. “Must have been part of the old mining tunnels.”

Rodney nods and pulls out a paper map of the park with–would you look at that–a map of the old mine overlaid. “I think we’re here,” he says, pointing at a room just off a main shaft. “Looks like we’re pretty close to the surface. Although–” he grimaces, “–well, there’s only one way up, and it’s a shaft straight up. And I doubt he was polite enough to park the car at our floor.”

“I wouldn’t trust a two hundred year old elevator, anyway,” John comments. “Lots of wood to rot and iron to rust.”

Rodney blanches. “Yeah. Good point.”

Examining the lock, John lets out a soft _huh_.

“What?” Rodney leans over him, squinting down at the latch. 

“It’s just–” he reaches out and tugs at the padlock holding the door closed. “When’s the last time you saw a wendigo use a key?”

“Well that’s just weird,” Rodney says, as John pulls a couple paperclips from his pocket and picks the lock efficiently. “He must be a pretty fresh one.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” The lock pops open and John eases it off the latch. “Let’s go check out the lower levels, see if we can find where he’s hiding them.”

Rodney hesitates. “Right now?”

John raises a brow. “Uh, yes, now.”

“But–” Rodney jerks a thumb at his pack. “I need to run some more tests, do some research–there’re patterns to where they usually lair, and if I can just run the algorithm–”

“They lair in _mines_ , Rodney. And they don’t keep their victims alive for all that long, either. Not all of them, anyway.”

Rodney glances towards the exit, then at John, and he’s just opening his mouth to speak when there’s a scream from further down and both their heads whip around. “Not good!” Rodney hisses, and John takes off running, Rodney a few steps behind him, modified torch clutched in his hands.

John has to give the guy his due, he thinks as he slows his jog to a careful walk as soon as he’s near enough that he can hear something moving around. Rodney hadn’t struck him as someone particularly willing to jump into danger (although just being out here was a pretty big move for one of the coddled Men of Letters), but the minute he’d heard that scream, he’d jumped into action, no hesitation, no sign of his previous nervousness. And now he’s keeping up with John nicely and he’s even moving a little quieter without the giant bag.

John hesitates at an intersection, glancing down one corridor, then the other, and Rodney nudges him and points frantically to the left fork. John narrows his eyes, trying to communicate _are you sure_ , and Rodney nods decisively, so John leads on down that shaft.

Rodney must have been right, because there’s the sound of scuffling ahead and he turns and puts a finger to his lips. Rodney nods and John can see the fear creeping into his eyes, but he stays just a step behind John.

There’s a muttering from the cave ahead of them that gets louder the closer they get, and at the edge of the doorway, John holds up a hand. He peers around the edge and squints at the darkness inside.

A large figure is standing in the center of the room, saying something under its breath. It’s tall, at least ten feet, and its skin is stretched, withered and grey. Its hair is long and the same grey as its skin, pulled back into a tail at the base of its skull. It’s still got fragments of clothing, what look like khakis and a tee shirt, which explains the lock thing. _Must be a_ real _new wendigo,_ thinks John, and he slips inside.

There’s Beckett and Cadman, crouched on the floor together just past the wendigo, and directly in the line of fire if they try Rodney’s torch. Cadman looks pissed, glaring up at it, while Becket is curled on the floor clutching an arm that’s bend at an unnatural angle. Neither of them have seen John yet, which is good, because he doesn’t really have a plan quite yet beyond burn-the-wendigo-not-the-people.

Rodney is just behind him–John can feel his warm breath on his neck. He’s in full stealth mode, and Rodney’s quiet behind him, but then one of them–he doesn’t even know which–brushes against something that clanks loudly.

The wendigo spins with a growl and spots them, and John grabs Rodney’s elbow and drags him around the room as it advances until the two humans are out of the path of the weapon. “Now, Rodney!” he hisses, and Rodney fumbles the device out, pointing it at the thing.

“Holy shit,” says Rodney suddenly. “ _Kavanagh?_ ”

And that’s when the wendigo charges.

John has to give Rodney credit: when it comes down to it, his aim is _just fine_ , because he hits the creature smack in the chest, and it lights up like a Christmas tree.

They stand there, panting, and Rodney drops the torch and slides to the ground. “Holy crap,” he comments in a blank voice.

John drops into a crouch beside him. “Hey. You, uh, recognized it?”

Rodney lets out a hoarse laugh. “Yeah. Uh. Peter Kavanagh. Used to work with me at–well, it doesn’t matter where. Before I started hunting.” He shakes his head, still staring at the corpse. “He disappeared about a year ago, out hiking with a group of scientists. No one ever found them.”

“Well, I guess we know why,” says John. “Listen, I’m, uh, sorry–”

“Oh, no no no,” Rodney interrupts. “He was a terrible scientist.”

John snorts and goes to check on Beckett and Cadman, who are working to get a makeshift splint on Beckett’s arm.

Rodney joins in, hugging Beckett (Carson, he says, call me Carson) awkwardly around his good side and helping him to his feet. Cadman–Laura–is in better shape, but there are a few ugly scratches down her side that really should be seen to (“We don’t know where his claws have been,” comments Rodney, and John can’t help but agree).

They leave the corpse burning merrily inside the cavern, orange flames flickering across Kavanagh’s distorted face, and Rodney and Carson both look pretty green by the time they make it to the surface.

It’s a long walk back to the cars for the four of them, now that the adrenaline’s worn off. Beckett’s SUV had been towed when they were reported missing a few days earlier, and Rodney had taken a cab directly from the airport (and John didn’t even want to imagine how much that trip cost), so they all pile into John’s Camaro, Rodney’s gear squeezed into the trunk. Before they leave, though, Carson insists on checking John’s head wound and warning him to try and take it easy. At that, John rolls his eyes. “Doc, you’re the one with the broken arm. Don’t worry about me.”

“Still. Laura?” he calls, and Cadman turns. “John, you have a first aid kit. Ease a worried doctor’s mind and let Laura clean that out, would you?”

John sighs and submits to the cleaning while Rodney eats yet another powerbar.

***

“Again, I have to thank you, Rodney,” says Carson, putting a hand on Rodney’s shoulder. “I thought we were done for out there.”

Laura nods. “You’re all right, McKay,” and Rodney snorts.

“Oh, so glad I have your approval, finally,” he says, but he’s smiling as he says it.

“You take care of that head of yours,” Carson says to John. “Quite a knock you took, lad.”

John shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

“Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of,” says Carson, and Laura elbows him.

“Thanks,” she says to John, holding out a hand, which John shakes. “Give me a call if you ever need a favor.”

“I will, says John sincerely, because he’d liked the kid. He gives Carson a final wave, and the two of them set off, supporting each other as they head for the ER.

“You should really go, too,” Rodney says, once Carson and Laura are through the hospital door and out of sight. “You took a few good hits down there.”

“Nah.” John stretches out, long legs dangling out the door and spine cracking with the extension. “Carson looked me over and cleaned me up. I’m fine.”

“Still, you could have a, a skull fracture, or a concussion, or _brain damage_ , I don’t know–”

“Rodney, I’m a _hunter_ ,” John says patiently.

“What, you’re too cool for medical care?”

“No, I have _warrants_ in nine states.”

“Warrants?” Rodney blinks. “For what?”

“Oh, the usual. Grave desecration from burning bones, a couple for vandalism, breaking and entering things.” He shrugs. “Same as most hunters.”

“Well that’s just _stupid, _” says Rodney, reaching over John to grab his computer out of the bag in the backseat. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll clear that up.” He hops up on the hood of the car and flips the computer open, muttering, “ _grave desecration, what kind of crazy..._ ”__

__John can feel a smile stretching across his face as a warm feeling fills his chest. He _likes_ McKay. He’s prickly and rude and kind of a dick, but he’s also kind of awesome. And he’s fixing John’s warrants, apparently. Not to mention the fact that he’s actually pretty adorable like this, all wired on adrenaline and indignation._ _

__“You did good out there,” he says abruptly, and Rodney looks up._ _

__“What?” He pauses, obviously playing back the last few seconds, and abruptly blushes a little, cheeks pinking, and John thinks, _adorable >. “Oh! Um.” He lifts a hand from the keyboard and sort of flaps it around at John. “Yeah. You too.”__ _

___“How’d you like it? Being out in the action instead of cooped up in the lab?”_ _ _

___“Well, obviously, my research is crucial, because I’m not sure I mentioned this, but I’m a genius whose contributions to the supernatural sciences are _invaluable_. But–” He grins suddenly, the expression taking years off his face, “–but no, I wouldn’t mind getting some, ah, practical experience once in a while, no. It might actually help with my research.”_ _ _

___“Thought so.” John shifts a little, getting comfortable. “Well. Like I said. You did good.”_ _ _

___They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, before John’s stomach rumbles loudly._ _ _

___“Hey, Rodney,” he says, hopping out of the car and shutting the door before leaning against it beside Rodney’s leg. “You know what I could really use right now?”_ _ _

___“Hmm?” Rodney doesn’t even look up from his typing. “Almost done, almost done, ah!” He claps the laptop shut and looks up, then starts to find John so close, eyes flicking up and down his body and landing on his face. “Um, what’s that?”_ _ _

___“Breakfast.”_ _ _

___“Ooh.” Rodney’s eyes widen. “Pancakes.”_ _ _

___John nods. “Pancakes. Maybe bacon.”_ _ _

___“And _coffee_.” Rodney says dreamily, and John can almost see the hearts in his eyes._ _ _

___“Then a shower,” he says, because he knows he’s at least as filthy as Rodney is, and Rodney is pretty filthy. “Actually, maybe that first.”_ _ _

___Rodney frowns. “But _coffee_ –”_ _ _

___“How’s this,” John says, leaning in. “There’s a hotel just down the road that’s got a pretty great breakfast. Why don’t we find a room, shower, and order room service?”_ _ _

___“Um,” Rodney’s blush is back, spreading across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and John’s tickled to see a flush blooming from where his unbuttoned collar bares a little V of chest. “Sorry if I’m not reading this right, and please don’t, uh, punch me, or anything, because I’ve had kind of a rough day already, but, um–” and he stops for a second, closes his eyes, reaches out, and pulls John in for a long, firm kiss._ _ _

___It takes John a second to respond, because yeah, that was totally sort of vaguely where he was heading, but he thought he was going to have to do a little more wooing. But then Rodney freezes and starts to pull away and that’s the _opposite of what John wants_ so his hands come up to cup Rodney’s shoulders and he leans into the kiss._ _ _

___Rodney pulls away after a minute or so, because, _hospital parking lot_. hello, but he’s breathing a little hard and John can’t push the grin off his face. “So,” Rodney says, voice a little rough. “Breakfast?”_ _ _

___“Breakfast,” John agrees, and presses one more quick kiss to Rodney’s mouth, then ducks into the car._ _ _

___“But no citrus,” Rodney says, “I’m deathly allergic,” and John just grins, starts the car, and drops one arm across the back of Rodney’s seat as Rodney shuts the door._ _ _

___Yeah, maybe he doesn’t need a new partner after all._ _ _


End file.
